


Push Me

by benschwartz



Category: House of Lies
Genre: Alcohol, Boys In Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Repression, adhd clyde bc i said so, autistic doug, doug has a not terrible playlist, i swear i will give this tag life, it 5 am i wrote 2000 words tn, lowkey slowburn, they kiss, they r drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29532699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benschwartz/pseuds/benschwartz
Summary: Clyde and Doug blow off all their responsibilities to get drunk in the cold. Clyde borrows Doug's hoodie and finds his iPod when he gets home.
Relationships: Doug Guggenheim/Clyde Oberholt
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Push Me

**Author's Note:**

> this was kinda from the otp prompt generator thing it said smth abt clyde borrowing doug's hoodie and finding a playlist with his name. anywya this took awhile to write but tbh i took a two week break and then wrote 2000 words in one night gotta love adhd amirite anyway enjoy

The night’s air was frigid and the wind more so as it nipped at Clyde Oberholt’s ears like one of the lovers he took in strange cities. Much like those lovers, the wind was foreign to the usually warm streets of Los Angeles, so Clyde hadn’t been prepared for his bones to chill. The suit that he normally wore to the office had been abandoned in favor of a long sleeved t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans since the weekend forgave casual dress for those who worked overtime. Similarly, Doug Guggenheim had arrived in a hoodie and jeans, and Clyde only quipped at how ridiculous he looked because the warmth that spread in his chest at the sight of his coworker had frightened him. 

Rather than working, Clyde and Doug had raided Marty Kaan’s endlessly stocked liquor cabinet to cure their boredom. The consequences of this would surely be regretted on Monday, but for now they allowed themselves to laugh loudly in the bleak and cavernous halls. Each time Clyde’s phone rang, he put on a sober voice and assured Marty they were working diligently, which he certainly didn’t believe, and when the call would conclude the men would burst into laughter again, now under the pretense of swindling their boss. 

At midnight the calls had stopped coming, and Clyde and Doug grew bored of being drunk in their shared office. They were tired of staring at each other across tables and cracking jokes; they both wanted to move closer, to talk in hushed tones and say things they would forget by tomorrow. There was so much promise in the city outside, and Clyde felt pulled by the neon lights and fast cars blurring his vision out the window. Doug’s voice broke through the silence he hadn’t been aware of, and when he turned his head he felt dizzy. Intoxication meant more than what had come from a bottle. Clyde felt drunk on years of curiosity and hidden glances, all culminating into the way Doug was looking at him right now: parted lips and hungry, hooded eyes sunken into his pink cheeks, staring down Clyde’s soul like it was a piece of meat. 

“Do you wanna go to the park?” The words melted his burning stare into a watery grin, spreading lopsided across his face like he was trying to hold it in. 

“It’s fuckin’ freezing, Doug,” Clyde laughed like it was obvious enough, like he figured Doug’s skin was thin enough to feel the night’s frigidity through the walls of the building. A shrug was offered before Doug pulled his hoodie over his head, his shirt nearly coming with it, and offered it to Clyde. 

“Take my hoodie.” Clyde swallowed. Doug would freeze in that too tight t-shirt, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Selfish was his middle name. 

It swallowed Clyde’s senses and shoulders when he pulled it on. A deep breath filled his lungs while his still cold nose filled with Doug’s cologne, and if he clutched at the ends of the sleeves spilling over his hands, it was only to keep them up and not to grasp for some control. As drunk as he was, he wouldn’t let himself make a mistake tonight or ever. The most careful he had ever been was when drinking around Doug, and he wouldn’t allow himself to admit why. Reckless was his favorite game to play, but reckless wasn't the same as impulse. Reckless was a choice. Impulse was a broken dam, ripping through his chest and never stopping until every bad decision was made, and all he had to do was open the floodgates. It was easier to hold them closed. 

“Let’s go,” Doug said. It wasn’t a command, it was a warm hand held out to Clyde, willing him to take it to keep him warm. Take it or freeze to death in your uncomfortable desk chair, entombing yourself in this miserable office, after living a miserable life, for eternity. 

As often as he disputed Doug’s whims, Clyde always went along with him and smiled dotingly after him, and doing such a good job at convincing everyone it was bemusement at his stupidity that he had himself convinced as well. The Oscar for Most Repressed Man in America goes to… Clyde Oberholt! Perhaps he was drawn to consulting because he was so skilled in the carpentry of falsehood that he could build a house of lies with paper walls and cardboard floors stained mahogany, and the house would only collapse if he blew it down with honesty. Clyde wasn’t even aware that he resided in a fake house, so it would be safe to assume that he would be spared from its collapse, but honesty always peaks its destructive head in the hingeless door when it is least invited. When it is least expected. So Clyde follows after his friend, refusing to stare at the back of his head, and he tucks his fists in the pocket sagging below his stomach to hide their shaking. 

The elevator is his least favorite place in the building, so small and dangerous and sure to plummet if he thinks about the cords holding it up too hard. With his teeth clenched, he stomachs the ride, and though his discomfort usually goes unnoticed, Doug asks if he’s all right. Clyde considers answering honestly, but the dread that fills him at the thought changes his mind. 

“Couldn’t be better,” he poisons the air with dishonesty. A little spin punctuates his sentence, and Doug seems satisfied enough to leave Clyde alone about it. In the back of his mind, he knows Clyde lies more often than not, and based on his behavior he was certainly lying, but he’s found that pushing Clyde for an answer, trying desperately to pull him closer, only ever pushes him away. All of the medals he wears around his neck are for his talents of damage, and though they are gold, they weigh him down so much they may snap his spine in half if he does not hold his held up at all times. Doug has accepted that Clyde doesn’t want to lighten the load, especially not onto him, even though his shoulders are strong and wide and entirely capable of carrying Clyde and his damage. Clyde doesn’t need reminding of how strong Doug isーit’s one of the things Clyde can’t decide if he’s envious of or attracted to, and besides, the blue hoodie hanging over his shoulders serves as enough of a reminder. 

Clyde tries not to shiver while they walk to the park, and he wonders how Doug isn’t shaking so hard his bones rattle, but Clyde knows he’s cold because his nipples are hard through his shirt. He looks away once he notices, and his cheeks grow warm and pinker than the cold had made them. The goosebumps on his arms and the flush on his face were from the cold, he told himself, not from the way Doug was pretending not to be cold so that he could be warmer. The hair standing on the back of his neck was the anxiety that swelled from the darkness, even though he knew Doug was more than capable of fending off attackers. That’s all Doug was: wide, strong, tall, broad, thick, but all soft curves and gentle touches. If he knew his strength, he didn’t use it, and Clyde was glad. If he were one to use it, Clyde wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it. Far too easy was it to fluster and frustrate Doug and make him shut up, but if he stuck out his jaw and puffed out his chest, it would knock all the air out of Clyde until he had to have Doug give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and the absent thought that he wouldn’t mind made him grind his teeth.

“How long’s it been since you went on the swings? ‘V’you ever done it drunk?” Doug’s goofy grin was back, the warmth from the alcohol making him feel bubbly and smiley still. Maybe it was imagining Clyde laughing on the swing, the cold air pushing back his unruly hair, that made Doug feel giddy. None of the usual product was polluting it tonight, and he looked absolutely ancient in the most artistically Grecian way. Doug would know about art, he’s a Guggenheim.

“No, never. I haven’t been on a swing set in… fuck, I don’t know, since elementary school.” The realization made Clyde feel old. Sure, he was only 29, but that was practically half of his life expectancy at the rate he drank. For a moment he thought about growing old, about knowing his friends forever, about finding some blonde girl who made him look good and settling down with her and having kids just for the hell of it. For some reason that always felt all wrong to him. A family never seemed appealing, the wife and kids trapped in a picket fence and a 9 to 5 that kept him in one place forever. He wanted to travel the world with his lover and never get bored of anything and unpack his suitcase for the final time on accident, when they’re so wrapped up in each other that the rest of the world doesn’t matter anymore. Clyde doesn’t know if he’s capable of that kind of love, of being that loved. When he looks over at Doug, his chest tightens at his smile before he realizes Doug has said something else. “What?”

“Do you want me to push you?” He asks as they walk into the park, the swing set right in view. Push me, Clyde thinks, push me past every line and down every flight of stairs until I forget every name but yours. Push all my buttons and I will push yours harder, push into me and I will push into you, and you will win because I could never be as strong.

“Yeah,” is all he breathes, running like teenagers with nothing better to do towards the swings. When he sits down, Doug pulls him back effortlessly, like he’s some sort of ragdoll, and pushes his shoulders so he’s swinging high. Clyde grabs onto the chains as hard as he can, letting the sleeves of Doug’s hoodie protect him from the cold metal. It’s only November, it shouldn’t be so cold. There must be some unholy intervention pushing him into any means of warmth, and Doug just so happens to be a fake-house fire. The walls are crumbling around Clyde and he feels free, like he could fly, and his grip loosens with each push of Doug’s strong, wide hands on his back, never quite knocking the air out, but making it catch in his throat as if they were made of smoke.

When Clyde lets go, he flies off the swing and falls harshly, tumbling a couple times before stopping. Doug is shouting his name much too loud, and he’s fussing over Clyde like he cares, and it occurs to Clyde that he does. It’s enough to make him actually feel the pain in his shoulder now, and he lets the tears well up but never lets them fall. It’s the pain that makes him cry, so he wonders why the tears feel like liquid love burning at his dry veins. 

“Are you okay, Clyde?” The way he says his name hurts more than the fall.

“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes and pushes himself up, dusting off the dirt from his legs and arms. Doug laughs for some ungodly reason, and Clyde’s stomach drops. He’s seen through the facade this time, surely. His walls weren’t high enough and Doug must have gotten a new prescription.

“Do you want to sit in my car and listen to music?”

“Not if it’s yours. We’re not teenagers either.” Though the heart in his throat tells him he’s just 19 and he’s blowing it, he’s ruining everything with his attitude, but that’s always been his plan. As long as he can chat up a girl and pull away from Doug when the joke is over, he gets a laugh from his friends and a pat on the back for being the biggest slut across America. 

“Would you rather go home?” If Clyde didn’t know better he would say Doug sounded disappointed, but he knew better, and he knew the alcoholic haze they were both behind could convince the mind of anything. So as much as he wanted to say No, I want to stay here with you and pretend I don’t want you to make me warm, he shrugged and looked away because he didn’t want to face Doug.

“Sure,” because he knew any other answer would be troublesome.

The streets were almost empty, save for a few cars and drunken groups stumbling down the boulevards. This was a populous city, but none of the citizens were built for the cold, not even cold-blooded Clyde who oozed ice and fog from his sub zero insides, so they were all cooped up in their overpriced apartments and partying indoors; their lights lit up the city like the stars hidden by the pollution in the air. It was almost as beautiful as those ancient balls of gas flickering in the rural skies. 

Doug shouldn’t have been driving, but Clyde doesn’t care about him like that. Doug didn’t need looking after or protecting. Maybe help tying his shoes or staying organized, but he didn’t need to be fussed over, especially not by Clyde. Still, the pit in his stomach made him want to bring Doug upstairs and give him a blanket and pillow and a couch to crash on, or even just a glass of water to help him feel like more blood than alcohol again. 

Before he really decided on anything, Doug was pulling up to his building and giving him a somewhat sad smile. When he got out of the car, Doug rolled the window down and Clyde turned around at the call of his name. 

“I’ll text you when I get home so you know I’m safe.” Clyde could have frozen to the sidewalk then and there, and for a moment he did. He wondered if Doug could smell his fear for him, the worry that festered in his stomach at the prospect of something happening to his coworker. It felt unfair to call hima coworker, but inaccurate to call him a friendーhe was something else entirely and Clyde didn’t want to stick a name on it and taint it. 

“Sure. I’ll take the fall when Marty’s pissed on Monday.” I know you don’t like it when he yells at you, he wants to say, but he never does. He regrets that he’s said too much already. 

“Thanks, Clyde. I’ll see you soon.”

Clyde doesn’t mean to watch him drive off, nor does he mean to lean into the street to watch him go and nearly fall into the road drain, so he figures he left some part of himself in that car and it tried to pull him with it. It wasn’t worth getting back, so he shook off the feeling and walked up the stairs to his apartment with his head held high and his stride aloof. If it were possible to feel like sinking while on air, that’s how Clyde felt. Almost as if he was falling off a tightrope so high he couldn’t see the net underneath, so the net might as well be the ground, which might as well be where he sleeps tonight. 

Instead of the ground, Clyde goes to the bathroom to brush the taste of whiskey and whatever else he drank out of his mouth. He takes an Advil now and sits one on his nightstand, and when he returns to the bathroom, he catches the sight of Doug’s blue hoodie still swallowing him. First he swallows his pride and pulls the collar up to his face, shamefully inhaling the warm and soft smell that he knows far too well. When he lets go, he feels the weight of something in the pocket and pushes his hand in to discover Doug’s iPod. 

A laugh is exactly what Clyde needs, so he allows himself to flip through the horrible playlists that Doug has curated. His taste is cheesy and far too suburban wine mom for Clyde to listen to or even tolerate. However, when he finds a playlist simply titled “Clyde” as opposed to some long, elaborate title, his thumb hovers over the play button. When he puts the earbuds in, his head is filled with Mitski’s soft and melancholy voice. Looking at the list of songs his jarring as it’s completely different from all of Doug’s other music; no dad rock, no 80’s pop, no easy listening. It’s all Sufjan Stevens and Elliott Smith and The Weeknd, and Clyde hadn’t even realized Doug had heard any song from the past 15 years. At some point through Pink in the Night, something in Clyde’s brain clicked together telling him that he wasn’t meant to see this playlist. It meant dangerous things for him. 

A knock on the door made him abandon his listening, though begrudgingly, and he walked to the door expecting some neighbor to complain about him for no reason. (He was never there, he had no idea what they were complaining about half the time.) (The other half of the time he denied everything, especially if he was guilty.)

Instead, it was Doug. Sweet Doug and his secret playlist, with good music and good feelings that ache a little too much to really be good. Drunk Doug who had promised to text him when he was safe at home, who turned around and clearly ran up the stairs to Clyde’s apartment.

“You have my iPoー” Clyde didn’t let him finish. He kissed him too quickly and pushed the iPod into his chest, eventually just dropping it because it left too much space between his hand and Doug.

“I like Elliott Smith,” was all he offered, and they were kissing again, and again and again and again. 

Doug didn’t have to drive back home, and Clyde didn’t have to give a couch. He gave kisses and questions and quiet confessions, and it all felt like a dam finally breaking, but instead of the toxic waste he’d anticipated, fresh spring water poured over him, and he was sure that all those frets were for nothing but his father. With the man long dead, Clyde was going to live for himself, as himself, for Doug, as Doug’s. (Or he hoped.) Once the alcohol wore off, he knew the conclusion wouldn’t be so simple for him, but that was for his sober mind to navigate. For now he felt resolute with the wide shoulders and strong arms he’d yearned for wrapped around him, and a strong jaw resting on his head, with soft kisses pressing into his hair. For now he would be happy with this simplicity. 

**Author's Note:**

> pls leave kudos and uhm maybe a comment if u liked it :)


End file.
